


Midnight Conversation

by honey_wheeler



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dirty Talk, F/M, Phone Sex, phone sex operator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-05
Updated: 2016-03-05
Packaged: 2018-05-24 21:09:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6166936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She works mid-week nights, idly doing her psych reading or researching papers while she waits for the phone Margaery gave her to ring. Most of the men who call are more lonely than pervy. Sansa’s listened to them talk about their jobs, brag about their cars, cry about their divorces. Apparently the weekend is the freak beat, at least if the stories Margaery and Myranda tell over Sunday brunch are any indication. Sansa, being the least experienced of them –fine, being the <i>virgin</i>– gets Sadsack duty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Midnight Conversation

**Author's Note:**

> For a valar_morekinks kinkmeme prompt.

It's not the worst job she's ever had. The summer she worked at the fairgrounds, dressed up as a slice of pizza while she handed out coupons, was awful. The year she worked as a hostess was even worse; at least men hadn’t been able to leer at her and pinch her bum when she was covered with pepperoni. With this job, she expects the sex stuff – it wouldn’t be much of a phone sex line without any sex – which makes it easier. And this sort of sex stuff doesn’t really have anything to do with her. It’s more like playing a role.

She works mid-week nights, idly doing her psych reading or researching papers while she waits for the phone Margaery gave her to ring. Most of the men who call are more lonely than pervy. Sansa’s listened to them talk about their jobs, brag about their cars, cry about their divorces. Apparently the weekend is the freak beat, at least if the stories Margaery and Myranda tell over Sunday brunch are any indication. Sansa, being the least experienced of them –fine, being the _virgin_ – gets Sadsack duty.

“Are you that girl with the appalling grammar again?”

Sansa recognizes the voice. He’d called last week and corrected her all of once – “You feel _bad_ for being such a naughty girl, not _badly_ ,” he’d told her, “unless the biological mechanism that allows you to feel is broken” – but apparently that counts as appalling in his books. Sansa has a feeling that said books are weighty and more exhaustively detailed than her than most of her textbooks.

“I’m sorry,” she says, feeling a bit stung. It’s vaguely humiliating enough being the only virgin manning a phone sex line without customers being turned off by her misapplied adverbs, of all things. “I could transfer you to another girl.”

“Why would I want that?” he asks, sounding as impatient as he does confused. “I called on your night again, didn’t I?”

Sansa blinks. If she had a regular phone instead of a headset, she would hold it away and stare at it in confusion. This job is starting to play havoc with her self-image.

“Alright. Shall I tell you what I’m wearing?”

“Is it particularly pertinent to the conversation?” he asks. Mentally, Sansa holds away her metaphorical phone and stares at it again. Then she counts to ten.

“Why don’t you tell me how you want to start?” she offers. It goes a bit against Margaery’s guidelines, since they’re supposed to interpret what the clients want rather than straight-up ask them, but this guy’s a harder nut to crack than most.

“Fine,” he sighs, and Sansa can practically hear his disgusted expression over the phone. “I suppose clothes are as good a place to start as any.”

“Would I have to coax you this much in bed?” she asks, aiming for playful to cover the exasperation she really feels. There’s a huffing sound on the other end of the line.

“Young lady,” he says, and there’s no good reason for why it sends a pleasant thrill zipping up her spine to hear it. “I assure you that if you were in my bed, the sounds you would be making wouldn’t be half that coherent.”

It’s rather clumsy, as far as dirty talking goes, but maybe that only makes it more potent. The thrill turns into warmth settling low in Sansa’s belly and for the first time, she’s interested, even a little turned on.

“Oh?” she asks. “How would you do that?”

“I thought I was calling the phone sex line, not the other way around.” There’s the barest edge of something teasing in his voice, something humorous. It makes Sansa smile a little.

“Alright, then I’ll say what I’d do to you.” He says nothing. Sansa takes it as assent. She also takes it as a challenge. He certainly makes her work for it. He stays quiet, not even making encouraging sounds as she throws herself into it, spinning a dirty fantasy for him, suddenly _wanting_ to make him feel something. When he finally does speak, interrupting her as she describes bending forward over some vague piece of furniture, her raised bum inviting her to take her from behind, it comes as a shock.

“Not like that.”

“What?” she says, feeling like a car skidding to a stop at a sudden red light.

“Not like that,” he repeats. “I’d rather see your face.”

“You would?”

“Is that so surprising?”

Sansa could tell him that it is. She could tell him that none of the other callers she’s gotten to this point with expressed the slightest interest in her face, seeming only to care that she has an available cunt. She could tell him that some of them seemed like they’d rather not even be reminded she has a face at all, or a mind, or a life of her own. She could tell him that it doesn’t stop at the men on the phone, that she’s given more than a few blowjobs to blokes who seemed annoyed at having to remember her name. But all of that is more sad than sexy and no matter how much of a challenge she’s taking this particular call, it’s still a job she has to do. And she’d rather not ruin the first time she’s having fun doing it since she started.

“Alright. I’d lie back on your bed instead. I’d spread my legs. I’d show you how much I already want you, how wet you’ve made me.” Sansa’s shocked to realize it’s true; she squeezes her thighs together and squirms at the pleasant sensation of it.

“And then?” 

“And then I’d beg you to fuck me.” He lets out a great gust of breath. It’s her first indication that this is affecting him at all. She wonders if he’s touching himself. If he’s imagining her doing the same. If he would believe her if she told him how she’s slid her hand down between her legs to rub herself through her yoga pants, which she’d always liked wearing before because of how comfortable they are, but now she likes them for how easily she can get herself off without actually sticking her hands down her pants.

“Do you want me to fuck you?” he asks, his voice gone rough and low. She’s not sure when the tables turned so completely during this call, but she’s definitely enjoying it.

“Yeah,” she pants. She slouches low on her bed, spreads her knees and speeds her hand.

“Do you want me to make you come?”

“Yeah.” The word is a whine now. 

“I want to see you come.” The words are almost a growl. His own breathing is audible now, and she’s sure he’s jacking himself off on the other end of the line. Knowing she got him there triggers her orgasm and she lets herself whimper and grunt into the phone, wholly unconcerned with seeming pretty and elegant for him. Something tells her he wouldn’t want that anyway. When he groans and grunts himself just after her, she’s sure of it.

They do nothing more than breathe in tandem on the line for a bit, the sound of his low, hers high. He’s been on the line for over an hour. It’s costing him a fortune, probably. 

“Are you smiling?” he asks at last. The question itself makes her smile.

“Yeah. Are you?” He barks a short, sharp laugh.

“Do you think I seem like a smiler?” Sansa thinks for a moment.

“No. But I bet you’re smiling on the inside.” He’s silent for a long while, so long that Sansa fights the urge to ask if he’s still there.

“How old are you?” he asks suddenly, then immediately thinks better of it. “Never mind, don’t tell me. Will you be working same time next week?”

“Yes.” Then, against her better instincts – and Margaery’s protocol – she hears herself asking him his name.

He laughs again, but it’s softer this time. “Maybe I’ll tell you next week.”

The line goes dead with a click. Sansa should go back to her uni reading but there’s time for that. Right now she’d rather imagine the filthy things she can say to him next week to get him to tell her his name.


End file.
